


Bells

by insistentbass



Series: Festive Flings [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Christmas, Churches & Cathedrals, M/M, Public Hand Jobs, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: 'The memory stick in his pocket feels heavy. John heads downstairs to his wife, not yet knowing what decisions he has made. Whatever happens, it will never be the same as it was.'
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Festive Flings [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042989
Kudos: 24
Collections: 2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	Bells

**Author's Note:**

> Some Christmastime angst. Set in S3, during the Holmes cottage Christmas. This ended up a wee bit longer than I meant it to, but hey.
> 
> Warning - this contains adultery. I do not condone this, nor am I seeking to glorify it. Neither man is a good person in this, they are flawed characters, they are human. I certainly don't forgive them, I just make them do things. Sorry!
> 
> Secondary warning - religious setting where things take place which should not take place in such a setting.
> 
> Also, sexual acts in a public place. Smut, baby.
> 
> B x

Rough stone threatens holes in the back of his shirt, the cold of it steady and grounding as hands press him back harder. _Walk with me_ , Sherlock had said, and now this –

Drowning in his own words, John’s feelings and anger bubbling up his throat and then spilling into Sherlock’s mouth. A cave in the ocean, catching the waves of betrayal and want, crashing tides and lips – soft, open, pliable lips against his own. Discovering the rough of Sherlock’s jaw with his teeth, that harsh cut of bone he has always wanted to run the edge of his tongue across, lick the sharp of it until he bleeds.

Everything, all at once, crowded against a wall in the sacred grounds of a church, just down the lane from the Holmes’ cottage.

Sherlock has him trapped. One thigh between John’s legs, leather gloved fingers pinning his left wrist almost painfully, the other hand pulling in his hair – and John fucking loves it. Cannot believe he has lived this long without it. The taste of cinnamon and cigarette smoke paints his gums and even _that_ he wants, the sickly tang of it making his hips keen towards Sherlock’s pressed knee, rutting helplessly under the watchful eye of a God he has never believed in. 

Except John is not that helpless. His knuckles are twisting in the satin of Sherlock’s shirt, the warmth of the man’s skin from beneath his Belstaff almost suffocating, as he bites at the space between his shoulder and neck. It’s Christmas day, and it’s cold and white and wintery outside and the air is so perfect John wants to cry, is crying, probably, into Sherlock’s neatly pressed collar.

He’s cheating on his wife. Mary and their baby.

John should feel guilt and shame, but all he can actually feel is Sherlock’s cock hardening against his hip. They’ve barely spoken a word, yet the intent is clear. He can’t even question how they got here because it’s been slowly building for months now. John felt it start in the weak beat of Sherlock’s heart as he lay on the floor dying, his shaking fingers dialling an ambulance, in the grip of his arm as he fell to the carpet in Baker Street days later, in the weeks of space after, as they trod carefully around each other until their orbits collided once more. It was easy to pretend, between the cases and distractions, that nothing else existed. That Leinster Gardens had been a dream within a dream.

They’ll surely be caught soon. It’s a holy day after all. There are people inside the church, families celebrating while Sherlock tugs at John’s belt, half hidden by a large tree at the edge of the graveyard. How poetic it is, to do this here, amid the death that has haunted their entire relationship. There are so many questions and things John should say but there’s no space to do so. He knows this is just one moment, a singular rip in time where they can do this and exist within each other and never speak of it again.

John is an addict so he knows that having a taste of something is much worse than abstinence, yet he can’t help himself. Sherlock had been right there, turning him by the shoulder with his eyes crystal and honest – _it could have been, John_ – and he realises now the truth of that, there were chances neither of them took, unsure of the other, and each of them had dissipated in the flow of fake blood from Sherlock’s head against pavement. It is _that_ John thinks of as Sherlock’s hands finally work his belt open, as Sherlock takes his own gloves off with his teeth, leaving them in the snow and wrapping a naked palm around him.

The church bells begin to toll and John starts at the sound, his body jumping in Sherlock’s arms. He finds blue eyes and they both laugh inappropriately, low and ridiculous and dirty as the short huffs of air turn into moans. They are in a fucking graveyard, and John is spilling curses from his lips into the curve of Sherlock’s neck, his own fingers eventually finding purchase on the hem of an expensive shirt and claiming the skin beneath it hungrily.

“John – “ Sherlock begins, cut off by John’s tongue pushing into his mouth.

He’s so sick of talking. He’s so beyond hearing why he can’t have the things he wants to have, why they can’t just be simple and right and his without complication. For a few dammed minutes, all John wants is to feel good.

“Just. Let this happen. Please. Just, let it”

John maps his way up the man’s chest, his cock wrapped in those clever fingers, tries to breathe the entirety of him into his lungs so every exhale from now on will be Sherlock. There’s no response, so he begins to push into Sherlock’s cold grip, careening against him almost desperately. His breaths puff out in little clouds between them, melting against wool as he presses his forehead to Sherlock’s coat lapel.

Frankly it’s embarrassing how little it takes. Sherlock twists his wrist cleverly and begins to whisper into the grey of John’s hair. He can’t quite decipher the words but the rough gravel of his voice is enough to set off warm sparks in his belly. Fuck, he’s going to come all over Sherlock’s trousers, yet the thought does nothing to dispel the small filthy sounds dripping from his mouth.

The bells are still ringing so it must be midday. Sherlock’s parents will be preparing to set the table for lunch. They’re going to be a bit late, John thinks, because their son is getting his friend off behind a church full of people, teeth biting the shell of his earlobe and ghosting things there that no one else will ever hear.

John finishes with nails digging into Sherlock’s hips, holding him as close as possible. In another universe it might be beautiful and momentous, but here it’s just a brief minute of ecstasy. Immediately John is far too cold and it’s all too real, and he doesn’t know what to do, now. Sherlock produces a handkerchief and wipes the mess off his trousers, folding it neatly back in on itself and shoving it into his pocket. They’re still cocooned in Sherlock’s coat.

What John finds in Sherlock’s eyes, as he finally manages to open them, is indecipherable. They remain that way even as he dances his fingers along Sherlock’s waistband and flicks open the buttons there. John draws him out slowly and spits into his palm. Sherlock’s body shakes as if he’s about to tell him to stop, but he doesn’t. He just looks, watches John as he builds up a steady rhythm, deliberately taking his time.

Sherlock reaches up and grazes a thumb across the hollow of John’s cheek, taking the wet from his errant tears. With that John splinters a little, has to bring his lips to Sherlock’s throat to keep it together, fluttering kisses over his pulse and the shadow under his jaw. The smallest noise vibrates under John’s mouth and he knows it’s almost over.

Not too far away John can hear voices, families and friends emerging from the warmth of the building behind them. Sherlock suddenly squeezes John’s shoulder enough to hurt, he winces with the pressure of it but does not let up his pace, the movement of his hand fast and slick along Sherlock’s length. Fingers pull his chin up and Sherlock meets his gaze – _what are you doing_ – and John doesn’t quite know except he doesn’t want to stop, he wants to break Sherlock a bit, have him undone because it might be the only chance he gets.

Now, that hand is gripping the edge of his shoulder not to stop him, but for support. To stay vertical, because Sherlock is close, John can feel it aching in the air between them. As the hum of the crowd leaving the church gets louder, so does Sherlock’s breathing, inhales becoming sharper the more the risk of being caught increases. Interesting. John alternates between quick strokes and purposefully gentle pulls of Sherlock’s cock, watching the reactions wane and bloom in the cosmos of his eyes.

All too suddenly it’s done, and John catches the last of Sherlock’s delicious noises in his mouth, drinking them greedily from his lips. He tries to keep the moment for as long as he can, angling his forehead against Sherlock’s until his pulse settles again.

Then everything is bright. Too empty, as Sherlock peels away from him, tugging up the zip of John’s jeans before his own. The safety of his coat disappears, and all is numb.

There are a few horrible, painful moments where they each re-arrange their own clothing and smooth out their hair. John rubs what he can of the mess on the bottom of his shirt against the wall, and tucks it back into his waistband.

“We may have missed dinner” Sherlock says, avoiding his eyes.

John doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t speak at all.

He picks up Sherlock’s gloves from the snow and hands them back to him. For a whisper of a second he thinks about kissing him again, running his tongue along that cupids bow one last time. Better not, though.

They head back in silence, the ground crunching beneath their feet as they walk towards the path to the cottage. Mycroft is outside, so Sherlock stops where he his at the bottom of the garden and takes an offered cigarette. The older Holmes regards John with a raised eyebrow, and he doesn’t want to know what the man can see painted on his face. His lips are still swollen from Sherlock’s teeth and he smells like him, earthy sweat and smoke. There’s no chance Mycroft missed it.

John doesn’t look back, takes a deep inhale before he opens the door, the warm air startling. He takes the stairs two at a time to the bathroom, where he cleans the evidence from his shirt and throws cold water on his face.

The memory stick in his pocket feels heavy. John heads downstairs to his wife, not yet knowing what decisions he has made. Whatever happens, it will never be the same as it was.

The heat from the fire is overwhelming as he stands in front of her, and John wishes he were anywhere else but here. Mary smiles, a hand on her pregnant belly. John takes a breath and begins.


End file.
